You will attempt to see the profound expanse of the altruistic movement in b minor, much like the Americano-espresso drinkers hibernate in the afternoon still feasting on their morning fix.

I do not speak your language, reality
I speak in verse, in the PO-WAM
big bang theory of leisure and day to
day experimentation -

the cat is dead under the bed,
but I heard her salty gasps; her
bow-legged reminder that time
is always with us, even if as infinitesimal
as a sore joint.

We dig up the dead years
from the backyard, grow
our hair long again, throw
a clock over the fence, shrink
under Michael's yell, read from
the biblical tween novellas of
the current aristocracy, a innocent
innovation –

we begin to wear words
as earrings; text messages
WTF on our mouths like
the fissure of kisses

contention in b minor,